


Whiskey on the Rocks

by runningondreams



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 1872
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 12:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17467919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams/pseuds/runningondreams
Summary: Without a proper doctor in town, the blacksmith is a decent stand-in.





	Whiskey on the Rocks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [willidothefandango (nagth)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagth/gifts).



> Written for willidothefandango, who requested Marvel 1872, hurt/comfort and pining in the 2018 Fandom_Stocking event. I hope you enjoy it! I love this universe so much.
> 
> * * *

“Well, you’re certainly a stoic one,” Stark says as he pokes at Steve’s bare forearm. “I can’t believe you kept working through this. It’s not broken, but you’re going to have some serious bruising.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You sure you don’t know how it happened?”

Steve shrugs, one-shouldered. A barn-raising’s a bit of a challenge no matter how many precautions you take, and he’s not going to hold a few bruises against his new neighbors. Cage and his wife—Jessica, that was her name—had enough to worry about, with the homestead and a baby on the way.

“Could’ve been anything.”

Stark looks skeptical. Steve makes sure to look him in the face rather than stare at the fingers on his wrist. Stark’s thumb is pressed against his pulse. 

_Eyes_ , he reminds himself as his gaze slips to the man’s beard and lips. But Stark’s eyes are too intense for casual viewing. Steve stares at his hairline instead.

Stark doesn’t seem to notice.

“Well, our real doctor’s still on his way in,” he’s saying. “Should arrive in the next few weeks. The best _I_ can recommend is to try not to use it. Maybe get a sling. I’ll go see if I can hunt down some ice.”

“I wouldn’t want to trouble anyone—”

“No trouble, Sheriff.” Stark grins and waves him off, already backing away, letting his fingers slide over the back of Steve’s hand and away. “We’re all pretty well invested in your continued presence. We can afford a few luxuries in exchange for some real law in these parts.”

Of course. Steve rolls down his sleeve and watches Stark rejoin the party that’s starting now that the barn’s been properly finished. He unbuttons his vest and slips his right arm out of it, tucking it inside and awkwardly rebuttoning the bottom few buttons as a sort of support. It’s not as a good as a sling, but it’ll do. He’s only been in Timely for five days, but he already knows Stark is easily distracted, and on a hot June night like this he’s unlikely to find any ice in the whole township. 

A few minutes later he sees Stark riding away, toward the town proper. 

And that’s that, probably. At least for tonight.

Steve leans against a fence post and looks to the bustle of people around the rising bonfire. The night is loud with conversation and laughter and the pop of burning wood, loud enough to drown out the little noises he’d grown used to on the road. Somewhere in the hubbub someone is tuning a fiddle. Smells of roast chicken and fresh bread float on the breeze. He should rejoin the company, make the rounds, be sociable. He needs to know the people he’s working for. He needs to know the whole town better. 

His body protests. If it were up to his bones, he’d be putting down roots right where he is. His muscles, cooling with the cease in activity, are starting to stiffen and ache. His right arm, in particular, throbs in time with his heartbeat. And truth to tell, he has no real interest in more talk or dancing. A crowd has never been his strength, and that’s what it is for now. A crowd. One on one, or a small group, he does alright, but he doesn’t have the names down yet, doesn’t know these people’s stories, and he doesn’t have Stark’s flash and charm.

And here he is thinking about Stark again. Five days he’s known the man, and his thoughts turn back like a compass pointing North. 

He looks away from the party, taking long breaths of hot night air and training his gaze on the stars spread above him. It wouldn’t be such a problem if he had any sense of the man’s disposition, but he doesn’t. Quick as a rattlesnake, he knows that much. Affable. Personable. A good blacksmith, and more than that: a gunsmith, if the rifles over the bar are any indication. And he’d shown decent woodworking on the barn rafters. Bit of a Jack of all trades. One of Timely’s longest residents, come in with the first mining wave, but on his own venture, not with Fisk. 

And he smiled like they’d known each other for years and said ‘Sheriff’ like it was a nickname. 

Steve registers hoofbeats, getting louder, and makes himself pay a bit closer attention to his surroundings. A rider’s approaching, silhouetted against the fire and slowing down as they draw closer. 

“Just me, Sheriff,” Stark calls out. “Had to pick up a few things from my workshop.”

Speak of the devil.

Something sparks in the darkness, and then blue light illuminates Stark’s grin. He’s holding a lamp that burns brighter than any kerosene Steve’s ever seen. 

“Wasn’t expecting you back,” Steve admits. Stark looks faintly offended.

“I may be prone to flights of fancy, but I’d hardly leave a main in pain if I could help it. I found you a sling, and some ice. And I brought whiskey, if you’ve a taste for it. I haven’t seen you at the bar yet, so I just grabbed what was close to hand.” He ties the lamp to his saddle and swings to the ground smoothly. His horse hardly twitches, apparently used to the strange light. 

“Where did you manage to find ice on a night like this?” Steve can’t help but ask. Even just standing, he can feel a light sweat gathered under his shirt.

“Personal cellar.” Stark holds up what looks like a metal lockbox in one hand and a length of cloth in the other. “I bought a block off the last train. Figure if I don’t use it the doc will. Come on. That can’t be comfortable. Open up.”

Steve hesitates, but there’s really no reason not to. He unbuttons his vest again and lets Stark help him with the sling. The brush of Stark’s sleeves against his ears and the feel of Stark’s hands working at the back of his neck sends heat to his cheeks. He hopes it’s not too noticeable. 

Stark’s eyelids are lowered, his focus on making sure the fabric lies right. When he does meet Steve’s eyes, his hands still for a moment. Steve’s nerves pull tight as a bowstring. Stark is _very_ close. Close enough to kiss, if Steve was feeling brash. 

He keeps himself still, and after a stretched-out handful of heartbeats Stark turns to open his little case. Inside there’s a lot of sawdust and a squarish bundle of cloth that turns out to hold a few rough chunks of ice. Steve only realizes he’s still watching Stark’s lips when the cold slips against his injured arm. 

He blows out a breath in surprise and jerks back.

“None of that.” Stark grabs his shoulders, steadying him. “Is it too cold? Do you need another layer of cloth or two?”

“It’s fine,” Steve says. Now that he’s gotten past the initial shock it even feels good. Like stepping into a river after a long day. A miniature marvel in the baking scrubland that surrounds them.

“You sure?” Stark looks concerned.

“I am.” Steve re-settles against the fence and straightens his back.

“Hm.” Stark sits beside him and holds out a flash. “Share a drink?”

He shouldn’t. He takes the flask anyway. Takes a drink. The whiskey is smooth on his tongue and burns in his throat. He passes the flask back, and their fingers brush.

“I should thank you,” he says, gesturing at his arm and the sling. Stark grins around the mouth of flask as he takes his own sip.

“So thank me,” he says, his blue eyes dancing with humor.

Steve holds out his hand for the flask again and raises it in a toast.

“Thank you, Stark,” he says, “for pulling miracles out of your pockets.”

“My favorite pastime.” Stark leans close, pressing his shoulder against Steve’s good side. “And call me Tony.”


End file.
